


collections

by eyemoji



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Multi, tags updated as more stories written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-11-27 10:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20946800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: short stories based on prompts! feel free to leave more in the comments/in my inbox; i have too much time and nothing to do with it.latest story:22. Sad kiss for DasiraIt happens like this:One minute, Daisy Tonner is savaging. Through a forest. In Scotland, she thinks. A Desolation-infested forest. Lots of things are burning. Heat. Flames.The next minute, there’s Basira. Standing at the other end of the trees. With a fire-grade hose.





	1. Justice: gold, truth, double edged sword, impartiality

**Author's Note:**

> **_inktober day one:_ ring**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an old one- i'm trying to transfer all my mag short fictions to this collection for preservation's sake. originally published feb 22, 2019. i'm moving it to "chapter one," since, technically, it was published first.
> 
> thank you to podcasts-8-my-heart for the prompt!

Jon does not look at Martin.

He can still hear him, of course, quiet breaths suspended in an air that suddenly feels all too thick, the rhythm of his exhales just slightly tighter than usual, a hitch to his inhales that Jon knows was never there before.

He tries not to dwell too long on how he knows this. It’s the reason they’re here, after all, the reason why, though Martin is but half an arm’s length away– Jon could reach out and touch him, if he wasn’t so afraid of what would happen if he made contact– there is an immeasurable, yawning void between them, making its presence known in the dim static that fills Jon’s ears, the blankness scrawled across Martin’s face, the man standing just shy of the shadows in the background, watching the scene as if it were the only show left on cable and he had spent ten years alone in the dark.

Oh, yes, Peter Lukas is here, and Jon thought he knew how to hate a man when he’d had to sit down with Elias, time and time again, knowing he’d killed the only two people who might have been able to help him, and ask– no, _beg–_ for scraps of knowledge like the neighbor’s abandoned dog; but he knows now that he was wrong, that that was _nothing_ compared to the seething fury that wells up inside him whenever Lukas makes his presence known.

Jon does not look at Peter, either, frames it as a sort of rebellion in the back of his mind, though whether Peter enjoys being ignored he can’t quite yet say (he doubts it; Peter likes attention well enough, likes _stealing_ it from other people, leaving them dry and shriveled and thirstier for attention than the water they’ve forgotten to drink.) He doesn’t look at Peter, and he doesn’t look at Martin, and he tries to avoid the strength in his voice when he addresses Martin yet again.

It shouldn’t be this easy.

He shouldn’t _like_ it.

Not today, not with him, _not like this_.

Still, nothing sticks in the back of his throat as he wets his lips and swallows, as he hears the words oozing with cheese and charm from Lukas’ little corner: “Now come on, Jon, we’ll have to find out one way or another. And I mean, he does trust you. He won’t lie.”

“He won’t be _able_ to lie.”

A shrug; “All the better!” A pause; here it comes; Jon braces; “We all know what he had to do. And I know he’d rather you heard his failure from him.”

Jon wishes he could later say he glanced at Martin, saw the steel in the set of his jaw, the rigidity of his spine, but the softness of the curl of his hands, the determined acquiescence in his eyes, too. He wishes he could later say that he took all this into account and made an informed decision; that phrasing might even fool Basira. 

But he doesn’t do any of those things, and he will not lie.

The familiar warmth flows back into his voice and the golden rope coils at the base of his throat, ready to spring forward at the slightest quaver of his vocal cords. He fights the urge to turn his head, to chance a glance towards any of the other occupants of the room.

As he primes the question, gives over to the lovely, biting curiosity, he thanks the gods he no longer believes in and the other forces he now does that he does not have to watch his words in order to hit his mark, tighten the noose.

_“Do you love me?”_

He can feel Peter’s grin from the far end of the room as Martin, immediately, uninhibited, gives the answer.


	2. inktober, 1, ring

The phone on the table will be sleek, slim, and shiny, and entirely out of place with its surroundings.

Its silver edge will catch the edge of light from a long-dead sun, and every few seconds it will light up with a message, the incoming rate hauntingly steady.

No one will pick it up. No one will read the texts.

If someone was around to date the thing– and no one will be– they’d have placed it as stemming from somewhere around the 21st century. Not _ancient_ history, but history nonetheless. 

As it is, there will be no single soul in the vicinity to lend their talents, and so the phone will ignore the fact that it couldn’t possibly have gone hundreds of years without a recharge or two and cheerfully chug along in its data collection.

MESSAGE FROM JON SIMS, its display will read. Whoever the phone’s owner was will not have turned on message previews, and so the context of the message will remain unknowable until they, whoever they are, come back and unlock the screen with the press of a finger.

Five minutes will pass.

MESSAGE FROM JON SIMS, the phone will read again, the notification sliding neatly up to align with the last.

Again, no one will be around to see it. whoever Jon Sims is, it looks like he will not get a response for quite a long time. As frantic as his character seems, he’s yet to bother to call.

Perhaps then he might get answers.

Perhaps he is afraid of what they will contain.

MESSAGE FROM JON SIMS, the phone will read.

—-

There is something that exists here that seems entirely out of place.

Not the phone; the phone is Known, even if it is alien. At best, it is a piece of extremely stubborn metal that has lasted this long on sheer spite alone. Metal is fine. Metal is familiar. Metal can be disciplined and cajoled, bought or bribed or beat into submission.

There is another presence. human. This should not be possible, thinks the bleary-eyed entity that is this world personified, everything and nothing at once, always-shifting, never-comfortable. 

(It has never cared for humans; hated them so much, in fact, that it proclaimed itself God and made its own creations to Inherit the earth.

And yet, somewhere in its manufactured brilliance, there is a man.

The Extinction does not care for men.)

—-

If there was someone to look past the shining silver solitary phone– and there won’t be– they might have scanned the surroundings and eventually settled their gaze upon a body, lying unmoving on the ground.

He will be nestled on his side, will look like he’s been busy making love to Somnus for three hundred soporific years. He will look dead, perhaps, if not for the barest hint of breath that marks him as unmarked by that end-of-one, terminus.

(This will be in stark opposition to the end-of-all-things, which will have awoken by this point, frothing with rage and desires for revenge upon this one last vestige of humanity.)

The man will eventually open his eyes. He will eventually blink. Once he has done these things, he will make sure to remember to scream.

It is all _so_ much worse than he ever imagined.

Above him, on a table he can’t bring himself to look at, will lie his phone. He will remember this fact, but write the thing off as useless before even bothering to look into it.

_It’s only fair,_ he will reason. _It__’s only fair that this world_ isn’t._ It’s only fair that Peter lied, and this is it, or maybe he was telling the truth and this is what comes after. _

He will pause, then.

_ I don’t want this to be what comes after._

(Unfortunately for him, he will not have a choice.)

MESSAGE FROM JON SIMS, the phone will say. The man, whose name _was_ Martin Blackwood and _will_ soon be of no significance, will not be alerted of this. He will never have been in the habit of turning his ringer on.

Miles away and years ago, Jonathan Sims is about to give up. His fingers, which tremble as he closes out the messages app, are so close to dialing, and yet so afraid of hearing Martin Blackwood’s voice.

Martin Blackwood, who will need the motivation to get up and live more than anything.

Martin Blackwood, who will have a way out, but only if he’ll get a reason to go _on_ with it.

(Jonathan Sims could be that reason.)

((If he will only call, make the effort to span space and time with the sheer trump card of a telephone signal, Martin might find it in him to reach out.))

(((Perhaps if only the phone will ring–)))


	3. magnus drawtober, 7, not!them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening: [ 'stalker's tango' by autoheart ]()

The thing about Martin Blackwood is that Jon can’t come up with a reason to fire him.

It’s not his work that’s the problem; if anything, Martin is one of the best researchers he’s ever worked with– technically. His backgrounds are thoroughly delved into, his writing has such precision that Jon is even a little jealous himself, and he has numerous documented awards and accolades from various universities worldwide, all showcasing the range of his expertise. 

His personal style is so subtle as to barely present itself in his writings while continuing to add a healthy amount of flavor to the text; he doesn’t overuse jargon or otherwise make his arguments inaccessible, and he makes liberal use of the drafting process. 

His latin is flawless. He’s never missed a deadline. Jon hates him with a burning passion.

It’s not all jealousy, though Jon will admit that he’s not immune. no, it is the plain fact that Martin K Blackwood is intrinsically, explicitly the most _ridiculously unfriendly man he’s ever met_ (and that’s saying a lot, coming from him.)

It’s torture, really, that he be forced to work with someone as– as _Martin_ as him; he doesn’t know how Tim and Sasha put up with it. He’s tried to look back on his thought process for when he hired him; according to Elias he was _very_ insistent as to his three choices– but to no avail. He tried bringing up the possibility of letting him go, once, but something stuck in his throat, and he pictured Martin’s face, the undoubtedly sullen fury that would smolder in his gaze as Jon broke the news, and somewhere in the middle of it all the twisting feeling in his stomach convinced him that it might be better if Martin stayed.

He’s looked over his file multiple times since, tried his absolute best to convince himself that his Archives would be better without him in it– and each time he’s put the thing away, sighed, and reached for the next statement he had to record.

He sighs now as he reaches out, idly, arm groping for something that surely is there as his left pauses the tape recorder that had been running.

His fingers grasp at– nothing. air.

_What?_

He could have _sworn…_

He curls his fingers, tests the air to make sure one last time that there’s nothing there, then draws them into himself, half hurt by his own.. expectations?

It’s strange. The movement had felt similar, as if he’d been expecting a pen, or a phone, or the handle of a mug to have been there.

He reaches out again, remembers what the pang as his hand slips through the air feels like. For a second, he has a flash of something warm, lightly steaming against his skin. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and if he concentrates hard enough, he thinks he can catch the slightest whiff of– is that bergamot?

There is something missing, he thinks, for the briefest of seconds. Something he ought to remember.

It itches after that, nags constantly at the base of his skull. He does his best to ignore it and turn back to his work.

Maybe he’ll go buy himself a coffee later.


	4. unprompted; interlude; self-reflection

there is something so fragile about being able to feel.

as a girl, just entering the phase of not-quite-a-child, not-quite-an-adult, you’re told to rein it in, keep yourself in reserve, that the boys will work it out in a few years, but you’re clever; you’re brilliant; you can do it now, set an example.

as a young woman you decide men are not for you so why bother, and this is a secret that weighs on your heart and plays upon your lips as you bow your head to pray, but by now you have become good enough at keeping secrets to lie to your parents as smooth as butter. it is only five times a day that you expose yourself to being known, and you hope that you are understood.

in college you bite back the tears that threaten to spring forward the first time she kisses you, and when she takes a swig from the rum whose spice you can already smell, you place a hand against her chest and gently push her away. she looks at you in confusion until you point to the bottle.  
_i don’t,_ you say.  
_oh,_ says she.  
you do not see her again.

you join the police force, where emotions are supposed to be held back _(no wonder, at all the atrocities that are committed within the force, you think later, once you’ve gotten out)_ and you promptly fall in love with a monster of a woman, who stares at you over the edge of her sunglasses from across the floor and who comes barging in the middle of the department, hair greasy and limp, eyes wide with the smell of blood. you won’t be partners for quite a while, but already you know she is yours.

she introduces herself as daisy tonner.  
this confuses you, because you are quite sure from all the ‘reconnaissance’ (subtle glances in her direction and mild snooping on the department website) that her name is alice.  
you roll the name around on your tongue. _daisy_. it shouldn’t fit, but it does.  
she will never be your god, you know, but _oh_, she will come so damn close.  
the longer you spend with her, the greater number of times you find yourself praying for her. fresh out of a section 34, you catch yourself in her arms. she looks at you. smiles. she is a shark. you hope she can smell your blood.

_is this love?_ you ask yourself. if you’re right, this is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to let it flood you– in the car, out on the street, in your respective beds at night. daisy downs 100 malt scotch like it’s apple juice and doesn’t blink an eye when you refuse the bottle she offers you (she carries you to the car instead, and a thrill runs through you at the way she grips your thighs.) she buys you pretty scarves for your head seemingly at whim _(”saw this in the market and thought of you.”)_ _((said in the way she tosses it at you, not in the words that drip from her lips in your direction))_ and when you let her touch your hair she understands it is different.

there are three things in this world you love, you decide, and they are allah, books, and daisy. you are not sure how to feel about this realization regarding the third member of the list, but you’ve been wrestling with the question long enough for a wave of relief to accompany the decision. when the magnus institute demands an investigation, you laugh with the stilted man who is called the archivist, and his jokes are your jokes because both of you think logic is an acceptable substitute to the raving madness of emotion.

it is, sometimes.

(a creature of spirals and lies stabs the archivist through the hand and this only serves to further your point.)

((a man in a too-sharp suit smiles with an equally vicious smile as you sign a contract swearing fealty to him, and you repress the bubbling fear and replace it with the cool knowledge that you’ll turn this around to your favor, that this is the logical next step.))

(((four people walk into a wax museum and 0.996 of you make it out, because while you puzzled yourself out of that coliseum of topsy-turvy, daisy will always have your heart.   
and daisy isn’t here.)))

you grind your survival mechanism back down into your bones because it got you out it got you out and daisy didn’t have it, and she’s not here; she’s_ gone; _but not forever because they never found a body, right? they never found a body, and you let the space that has a swapped heart, a heart belonging to one alice daisy tonner work as a homing device to bring her back to you. you are her home. she is your anchor. you must, at the end, be together.

here’s a joke: a concerned friend walks into an escapable coffin representative of an immortal fear entity to get back the love of your life, and you’re too damn disappointed when a monster and human crawl out, and they’re the wrong ones.  
daisy is too fragile, too frantic, too clawing, and you wish you could wrap her up with you in colorful fabrics until her breathing slows and she gets back the hungry look in her eye that always made you feel like dessert.

you still feel like dessert, actually. it’s just that it seems daisy’s on a cleanse.

_they’re all bullshit,_ you remind yourself, and spend the rest of the night resisting the urge to pull her close.

you need her. she needs you. 2 + 2 = 5, and the missing 1 is the foolhardy Archivist, who never listens, and whose jokes aren’t quite as funny anymore. you want to slap some sense into him, and maybe it’ll keep him alive, because he is your hope, now; he is your mirror for whatever’s been done to daisy, and if he can keep himself together and keep control, then daisy can too, and you no longer have to mire yourself in anxiety and fear in order to survive the night. you can retreat back into the comfort of emotion displayed freely in your every breath instead of charging forward, a thin shield of cold indifference carefully layered across your lips and eyes _(except it’s not even indifference; you’ve lost your touch; can’t they see how you try and try and try–)_

you have the right intentions, you think, so he will understand.

you are little girl and weary mother all at once. the world is full of boys.


	5. sad kiss - dasira

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for heavily implied character death! also, spoilers for up to the end of season 4, but technically nothing more
> 
> thank you aza for the prompt!

It happens like this:

One minute, Daisy Tonner is savaging. Through a forest. In Scotland, she thinks. A Desolation-infested forest. Lots of things are burning. Heat. Flames. 

The next minute, there’s Basira. Standing at the other end of the trees. With a fire-grade hose.

It’s pointed directly at her.

_Water. Fuck! Pain. Need air. Ow._

Basira notices, though. Turns the hose off.

For a moment they stand there in silence, just the two of them. Daisy’s eyes begin to sharpen; the fog in her head begins to recede. The voice that lives there, that tells her to rip and tear and hunt and kill, too, is quieter. She gives herself a little shake. To air out the water.

“Daisy!” Basira finally says. Her voice is tremulous and low. It carries across the little clearing between them, just barely tinged with sorrow. Daisy’s head feels lighter. It’s strange, and more than a little jolting, now that she processes it: Even now, Basira has her back, keeping her thinking in full sentences. 

She knows it won’t last long, this moment of lucidity; she tries to hold onto it anyways.

A few bounds and she’s across the clearing.

“_Basira,”_ she says, or at least she thinks she says. She must not have gotten it right, judging from the minute flex of Basira’s wrist at her side. Still, despite everything, despite Daisy’s dripping jaws and steeled eyes and enormous, lolling tongue slipping out from beneath wickedly sharp teeth, she doesn’t take a step back. Daisy’s heart aches from it.

The determination. It’s in the set of her hands, in the flecks of flint in her irises that mirror her own stubborn gaze. Briefly, she wonders. If her eyes are even the same. If Basira can still see devotion in them. 

Basira’s trigger finger twitches. Daisy tracks the motion. Raises an eyebrow.

“You going to kill me?”

Basira hesitates. And then slowly, eyes not leaving Daisy’s, she nods.

“Good.” 

And she means it. She needs Basira to know she means it.

She steps forward, encroaching on her space, goes to take her hand. So she can look her in the eyes as she says it. So Basira knows she has her blessing.

Basira doesn’t want it.

“No,” she says, and _damn,_ is her voice nice like that. Rich, a promise to the velvety quiet of her own mind. She still doesn’t step back, but her palms trail away from Daisy. She itches to chase after them.

“To which part?”

“All of it,” Basira says, shaking her head.

“You promised.”

“I _know--” _and it’s a _snap_. Basira didn’t use to snap at her like this. Daisy used to be the snapper. That’s fine. Basira deserves to let it out however she wants. But-- she _did_ promise.

“Basira...” Daisy tries. She can feel herself already. Slipping. She’s losing thoughts. Sentences will be next. The voice is back, already screaming. Eye above, pressing. Watching. Waiting its turn.

Stealing her words.

“Basira, _please_.”

No response.

“I’d-” she flinches. Fog. In her head. She feels it coming. The noise is so loud. Her next words are a rush.

“I’d. Foryou.”

Silence. Basira already knows. Reminder?

There’s something different in Basira’s eyes. Something... not predator. But not prey. No word for it.

Nails itching. Jaw sore from staying closed. Want to move. To run. To _hunt_. The voice says to rip. To tear. To chase.

“Basira...”

She should _run_. She wants to say it. Can’t. Basira takes a step. 

_Good. _

It’s forward. 

_Bad! Run! Leave!_

Basira’s mouth, moving. Saying something. Daisy doesn’t know what. And then-- on her.

Daisy blinks. She’s warm. Here. Not prey, not predator. Different. New, but not new. Comfortable, but fragile.

Basira presses in further, slots her lips against Daisy’s harder. Less a goodbye, more begging. Is there less fog in her head? She meets her in the middle, pushes back. Fingers in hair. Someone’s hand is around someone’s waist. It’s nice. Good.

And then, something warmer, hot, like fire. Like Basira, but it’s not Basira, because this is _painful_. She gasps, stumbles. Basira catches her.

Daisy Tonner used to be police. She knows what a bullet sounds like. Feels like. 

Two more, from a trembling hand. _Gertrude Robinson was shot three times,_ she remembers. A friendly tidbit from above.

It’s okay, she thinks, eyes fluttering. She doesn’t blame Basira. She asked for it. She’s proud. And Basira’s done her another favor: For once, just before her eyes close, she can no longer hear the noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am currently taking [ kiss prompts! ](https://justasmalltownai.tumblr.com/post/616405404805726208/prompt-list) please [send some my way](https://justasmalltownai.tumblr.com/ask)

**Author's Note:**

> all of these are also on the blog.


End file.
